


Every Foolish Dream

by thegrumblingirl



Series: Far Away from Home [1]
Category: Midsomer Murders
Genre: F/M, First Kiss, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-04
Updated: 2012-08-04
Packaged: 2017-11-11 10:03:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,384
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/477349
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thegrumblingirl/pseuds/thegrumblingirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Barnaby has a strange case that leads him to cooperate with another CID—Middlesbrough, of all places! After a long day, he crashes on Troy's sofa, and the two get talking. Interesting revelations ensue.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Every Foolish Dream

"Alright. Wrap this up, Sergeant, and see to it that the evidence gets processed and cross-referenced with whatever they have from the scene in Causton by tomorrow afternoon."

Barnaby watched with quiet pride as his former DS, now DI, Troy calmly gave the orders to his team. He'd grown up another bit, it seemed, and, from what Barnaby could gather, was well-respected and liked in his new department. He filled his new role with ease and, although his former DCI from Midsomer hadn't had the chance to talk to his superiors yet, most likely with at least a few remnants of that loose gob that had offered as much amusement as occasion for exasperation back in Causton.

"Do you want to go back to Causton for the night, sir? It's almost 11," said Troy, shaking his old boss from his musings.

"Actually,  _Inspector_ ," Barnaby replied with a teasing emphasis that made Troy grin, "it's a bit late and I'm tired, so staying here might be the better idea—I did pack a change of clothes."

"Very well, Chief Inspector, your choice: the rickety sofa at the station, the pub… or you could always avoid the pain in your back and wallet by staying in my guest room."

Barnaby didn't have to think hard about that: "Invitation graciously accepted, Troy."

At his arrival that afternoon, Troy'd automatically snatched his car keys from him to drive to the scene together, which now spared them an extra trip. Barnaby looked forward to catching up a bit—he was sure there'd be many interesting stories to tell.

"Great, sir! Are your things in the car?" asked Troy, already swirling the keys around his forefinger. At his former boss' nod, he grinned and led them to the car.

* * *

After the drive to Troy's apartment, during which the DI narrowly avoided a careless cyclist and a squirrel, Barnaby didn't quite know how he felt about the old wisdom that some things never changed; but he was amused more than frightened for his life. Troy unlocked the door and held it open for Barnaby before stepping in after him.

"It's just down the hall, second door on the left, sir," he directed him towards the guest room. "Bathroom's last on the right. I'll be in the kitchen."

Barnaby briefly wondered what fresh hell of left-over takeaway might await him there, but then discarded the thought. Troy probably wouldn't have offered to take him in if there hadn't been anything edible in the house—besides, considering Joyce's latest adventures in the kitchen, he'd accept microwaved chicken chow mein any day. In the guest room—which was also doubling as a study, going by the laptop and files and notes strewn across the desk in the corner—fresh linens were laid out on the dresser next to the sofa bed, along with covers, and Barnaby shrugged off his suit jacket, draped it over the back of the desk chair, and set about making himself at home. When he was done, he carried his washbag to the bathroom; and in the hall he heard a clanging, along with a few muttered curses from his host. As he stepped into the kitchen a few minutes later, his eyebrows climbed nearly an inch and a half up into his hairline: Troy had actually started cooking. A simple dinner of pasta and Uncle Ben's tomato sauce, but still. Barnaby was just about to comment when he saw the pile of Chinese takeaway cartons in a cardboard box next to the trash bin. Troy, who'd looked up at his entrance, followed his line of vision and chuckled.

"The case we were on last week was a pain in the arse, sir, so I didn't have the time. But I try to keep the kitchen stocked with proper food for the better days. At least we got the culprit, though."

Barnaby nodded and came closer to the kitchen counter. "Can I help?" he offered.

"You can tell me what you'd like to drink."

Barnaby spied a few bottles of wine in a rack next to the fridge, tapped Troy's shoulder to signal, 'I'm on it,' and went over to investigate. Picking out a suitable red, he let Troy hand him a corkscrew and two glasses from the cupboard, with which he made his way into the living-room across the hall. Giving the wine a few minutes to breathe on the wooden dinner table, he looked around the room, his natural curiosity taking over. He'd never been to Troy's flat in Causton, though Troy had been both a visitor and a guest at his home on several case-related or private occasions, respectively. The room was a bit cluttered in the way busy people's places were, but not too messy. To the left, there was another door, slightly ajar, and through there he saw a bedpost and clothes thrown over a chair. He moved on, and turned right, towards a comfy-looking sofa that stood against the far wall, flanked by two bookcases, across from a flat-screen TV surrounded by DVDs. Barnaby stepped closer to discover Doctor Who next to James Bond and Twin Peaks, an American TV series he vaguely remembered from the early 90s. Moving on to the bookcases, he found Conan Doyle, Nick Hornby, and Douglas Adams cuddling with comic books (Cully had told him they were called graphic-novels these days). What drew his attention, however, were the photographs: a few family snapshots, a group photo the constabulary at Causton CID had given him as a parting gift… and there was another one, a little to the side. The two of them, standing closely together, quietly discussing a crime scene, judging by the yellow tape. Troy had his head bent down a little to catch what the slightly shorter DCI was saying, a look of expectant concentration on his face; and the Barnaby in the photograph seemed to be making an important point, since he was punctuating his words by poking his Sergeant in the chest. Barnaby tilted hid head slightly and tried to remember the occasion, but couldn't come up with the case in question, much less anyone who might have taken the picture. Just then he heard Troy enter behind him. He turned and saw the younger man balancing their plates, already filled with pasta, and a bowl containing the sauce to the table. Barnaby contemplated leaving the question until after dinner, but found his impatience nudging him.

"Troy—forgive me for prying, but who took this one?" he asked, pointing at the framed picture. Troy put their food on the table, wiped his hands on a kitchen towel over his shoulder, and came over to stand next to him. Seeing which one Barnaby meant, he smiled a little sheepishly.

"Amy did, one of the new forensics girls. It was on that real estate agent's case, remember, only a few months before I got promoted? I hadn't noticed she'd taken it, but a few days later she sent it up. When I asked her, she said she liked taking pictures of new colleagues while working, and that she found we looked like we were making a good team. When the case went crazy, I forgot to tell you about it, and then it just sort of got lost in the clutter until I cleared out my stuff. I found it, but you were already off on a case again, and I didn't know whether you would've liked a print, too, or whether I was just being soppy, so I pocketed it as a souvenir, just for me."

Barnaby smiled—yes, he remembered now; and he knew of Amy's penchant for observing colleagues while working crime scenes, there was a steadily growing collection of snapshots like that on a cork board down in the lab at the CID. "I would like a print, actually. I like Amy's observations, and you weren't being soppy—we were a good team. Still are, as we could see today." He nudged Troy's shoulder with his own, and the younger man laughed.

"Because I voluntarily drove the car and you could berate me for not having learnt anything since the academy, you mean? Well, I'm glad. I'll ask Freddie to make a copy for you tomorrow." With that, Troy took the frame from the shelf, opened the back carefully to take the photograph out, and put it on top of the case files, part his, part Barnaby's from Causton, on the coffee table. "Dinner?"

* * *

During dinner, the two swapped stories about their most curios cases and the strange people they'd met on the way, as well as family tales. When Barnaby mentioned that Cully may have found the man to marry, Troy drew an eyebrow up—his first suspicion was jealousy, but then he realized that the half-grin was directed at him, and concluded that Troy was teasing him about his own fatherly feelings on the matter.

"Oh, don't start," he growled, and the DI burst out laughing.

"Come on, I know how protective you can be, nothing to be shy about. What's he like?"

"He's a musician."

"Ah."

"Struggling on the reliability front, but I've had worse sergeants," Barnaby meant to tease, but Troy pouted a little. "Oh, not you!" he scolded gently, and the boyish grin was back. "But the one after you… oh, dear. Anyway, apart from your varying success at punctuality and the odd lapse of memory—oh, don't start pouting again, you were fine."

"I'll take that as a compliment, sir," Troy quipped good-naturedly, albeit with the tips of his ears going slightly pink. Barnaby knew he wasn't exactly stellar at complimenting his sergeants on jobs well done; so he'd made sure to tell Troy how much he'd appreciated working with him before he left for Middlesbrough. Still, the DI seemed surprised at the attention, and Barnaby wasn't sure whether his next idea would make it better or even worse.

"Look, since we're already teasing each other about our little flaws—you're not my sergeant anymore, and you're the officer in charge at your end of this damn case, so how about me agree on first-name terms?" He raised his glass at the offer and though seeming momentarily stunned, Troy swiftly picked up his own. "Alright, the House is in agreement, therefore: it's Tom."

Clinking their glasses, Troy grinned, "Call me Gavin, s—Tom."

* * *

Not much later, they'd finished their plates and Tom nudged a protesting Gavin aside to help with the dishes. As Barnaby excused himself to go to the bathroom after they were done, he noticed something that had escaped him before. Back in the living-room, where Troy had moved the wine and their glasses to the coffee table and himself to the sofa, he couldn't help asking, "So, who's the lucky girl?"

Gavin, who'd been thumbing through Tom's case file, which he hadn't had a chance to read entirely yet, looked up with a truly clueless expression on his face. "Who?"

"There aren't any other typically female things lying around, though, no second toothbrush, either, so I'm guessing you're either very much at the beginning, or… it's casual, as the kids call it these days?"

Gavin still didn't show any signs of knowing what he was on about, so he took pity and elaborated. "I'd almost missed it, but there's a bottle of nail varnish and a tube of mascara in the bath. Or is that yours?" he teased while moving to sit next to the other man on the sofa. (It really was as comfy as it looked.) That's when Gavin finally understood—and started laughing.

"That's—I'm sorry…," he chuckled a few more times before settling down, "that's my cousin's. She moved to study in London, and she had a few days to kill before moving into her dorm, so she camped out here last week. I was going to send her those in the post."

"Oh," made Tom, and laughed. "Well, it was worth a try. So, no girlfriend, then?"

"No," Troy sighed, sinking back into the cushions. "It's just… well, you know how any of that worked out back in Midsomer. And then, here, there was a girl. We were together for over a year, but her parents hated me, and at some point she caved and… left. Not as much of a failure as earlier opportunities, but…"

"Oh, but I thought, out of the earlier opportunities, Rosalind had worked out rather well…" Barnaby wasn't acerbic very often, but always with purpose. Troy clasped his hands over his face and curled up in himself a little. "Noo, no, don't mention that name ever again! Oh, God, that was so…"

"Embarrassing?" Tom prompted, and Gavin, peeking out from behind his fingers, cringed. "That about does it."

"Well, don't be too hard on yourself, you saw reason soon enough."

"Yes, about ten minutes after you'd noticed that my tie was gone. I was surprised you didn't say anything else."

"Oh, I wanted to." He'd been furious. "Just as I wanted to when you made gooey eyes at that young Byron girl and took her dancing—"

"You knew?"

"I saw you. I wanted to talk to you about the case, but there you were, and I didn't want to interrupt as much as I had an inkling that it was a bad idea—kindness won out. Later, I knew."

"Oh. Wait, what do you mean, later you knew?"

"Well, I wasn't entirely sure at the time, but there was an unsigned card at the funeral. We knew all the other women who might have sent one, but all of them denied, and I never noticed any Byron anywhere while snooping around their houses. Our young colleague, however, seemed a bit quick at denying she'd had any romantic feelings for poor Dave, and sadder than she'd have had reason to be if she'd been telling the truth. It was just a hunch, but when you showed me the present you'd bought for her, I was sure."

"The card was from her. She was in love with him, so I was literally too soon. She told me she wasn't ready for a relationship, but I'd never thought… oh, well. Bygones and all that. Thank you for not telling me."

"You're thanking me? I thought you'd be miffed."

"No, if you'd told me then, you would have had to rewrite my part of the report for the court case to redact all the insults."

Tom laughed, and leaned forward to pat Gavin's knee. He didn't mention that he himself had had to take a few calming breaths before writing up his own part of the report—that scoundrel had hurt his Sergeant Troy, if only by extension, and that never sat well with him. He wasn't ever going to say it, but in the safety of his own mind he wasn't too coy to admit he'd always had a soft spot for Troy and his antics, as well as a healthy bit of professional iciness for anyone who made eyes at him; and he missed him. He'd always been more than a little attracted to him, both physically and to the way he'd brought life into the somewhat mopey Causton CID and, consequently, Barnaby's life. He'd never really known about Troy, but he'd been secretly thrilled when Troy had suspected him of having a thing for his old friend, Jane, the psychologist. Cully had told him about the way Gavin couldn't seem to let it go much later, not because she was worried about her parents' wedding vows, but because she thought the young sergeant was taking it personally. Barnaby had waved it off and explained that Troy was trying to figure out whether his boss' judgement might be clouded, and that, while he should rather ask his boss those questions, he was right to ask whomever he deemed necessary. And while Cully had nodded and moved on to another topic, Tom had mentally struggled with himself not to get his hopes up.

He'd never dared to consider what he'd do if Troy did reveal to feel the same, he didn't think he could face the dilemma of standing between his wife and his sergeant. It scared him when he'd caught himself wondering what might happen, how far he'd go. So he'd settled into fancying someone who'd never reciprocate—and he'd been surprisingly content with it. Their relationship had always been easy and close, and it was amazing how one could settle for something hopeless if the little things just made one happy enough. It wasn't until Troy left that he started feeling decidedly unhappy about that little arrangement he'd made with himself. He'd always done well to resist the temptation of talking to him about it, which had been harder and harder to do lately.

"Tom. Tom?" A voice cut through his contemplation, very close to his left ear, and he jumped a bit. Gavin grinned. "You were miles away there—everything alright?"

Tom quickly gathered his scattered thoughts and nodded. "Yes, just… remembering how that case played out in court. The jury did have a bit of… fun."

Gavin chuckled, but then sobered. "I dreamed about one of our old cases the other night—the one with the kids."

Barnaby shivered slightly. Much like Sherlock Holmes always called Irene Adler 'the Woman,' he and Troy had tacitly agreed on speaking of them as 'the Kids.' He still shuddered whenever he thought of Jane's children, who had murdered four people and made an attempt on his own life to make their mother give up her practice and go away with them. Trust the man to bring that case up just after he'd managed to focus on the less gruelling aspects of it…

"What did you bring that up for?" he complained, feeling a little caught in the headlights.

"Oh, just because we were talking about failed romances…"

"Troy, I told you I didn't have any feelings for Jane!" In his righteous anger, Tom even forgot that it wasn't  _Troy_  anymore.

"That's not what I meant—Tom," the younger man admonished gently.

"Oh. Then what on earth did you mean?"

"I suppose Cully didn't tell you?"

"Tell me what, Gavin?" he countered, impatience curling around his tongue—he hadn't been happy when he learned that Troy had taken his daughter to the climbing range, if for slightly more complicated reasons than he had implied to his sergeant at the time.

"Well, it was a bit of an accidental date, as you might have guessed, and… I may have hit on her and tried to kiss her. In fact, we did, kiss, I mean, but it didn't seem like such a good idea, and so then she showed me how to climb properly and that's when she found… you know the rest." Gavin fell silent, his eyes not quite meeting Tom's, and waited for the inevitable tongue-lashing.

"Why did you do that?"

That wasn't exactly the explosive response he'd been expecting.

"Why did I do what?"

"Why did you kiss Cully? I mean, you didn't appear to have much of a crush on her. Needless to say, she never told me, either, and didn't seem heartbroken afterwards… sorry," he added. He didn't want to put another dent in Troy's ego by making him feel like there was another father who didn't think him to be a good-enough son-in-law.

"Well, no, I wasn't in love with her or anything, it was… just a spur-of-the-moment thing, I suppose. She was close, and she… oh, never mind."

"Never mind what? Come on, don't leave me hanging now!"

"Well, she was yours!" Gavin's eyes widened and he clapped his hand over his mouth as if to try and push the words back in; shocked by his own admission.

"Pardon?" Tom's thoughts raced at a 100 miles per second, but he struggled not to let his conclusions get ahead of themselves.  _Let him explain_ , as he always thought to himself when dealing with mortified witnesses who struggled to find the right words.

"She was your daughter, she was the closest I could get to you. She smelt a bit of you, actually, and that's why when she got so close… that's the only time I slipped up like that. I had the worst crush on you at the time, and I was so jealous of Jane—you know why? Because at work, I had you to myself a lot of the time, and then there she was. I guess you could say I was a jealous work-wife… Anyway, I wasn't thinking clearly. Same as now, obviously, because if I hadn't had three glasses of wine I wouldn't ever have told you that; and I'm sure now you think that I'm a creep and a horrible person for doing that to Cully. Let alone being foolish enough to have a crush on my happily married DCI, who I knew would never feel the same. Oh, God, I should shut up now." Gavin had hidden his face in his hands again, his head resting on the back of the sofa. His ears were crimson, and even if Tom didn't have feelings for him, he couldn't have been angry with him if he tried—an embarrassed Troy was simply too endearing. He carefully bridged the space between them and put a hand on the younger man's elbow. An eye appeared from behind his right hand. Tom smiled at him, and the eye widened almost comically.

"I don't think you're a creep, or a horrible person—you shouldn't have kissed her, but she was a grown woman by then, and I think she liked you well enough to at least want to try. And it's not like you planned it three days in advance, as the people we usually meet do. As for having a crush on your happily married DCI: well, you're right, that isn't a good idea; but no reason for me to think any less of you. On the contrary, I'm flattered."

The rest of Gavin's face reappeared, and the expression on his face was one of delighted astonishment. "Oh. Good. I was sure I'd just single-handedly ruined everything, even though it's in the past now, but, um, you always were full of surprises," he added with a nervous laugh.

Tom had tried to bury his feelings after the promotion, but they were still strong enough to want that photograph of them together rather badly, and to see him more often to go for lunch the way they'd used to, and talk. One might have taken these feelings for a crush transformed into friendship, if there hadn't been the strong physical attraction Tom still felt as well. Troy had been the only sergeant he had comfortable bodily contact with, spinning him around or just dropping his head on the younger man's shoulder in despair at a case—the only outlet he'd allowed himself. Same was Troy with that kiss and the general adorableness of him that no-one would find suspicious in a young officer on good terms with his boss. Even Barnaby, with his keen skills of perception and, due to his own feelings, heightened sensibilities, hadn't really picked up on it, apart from noticing how Troy always seemed to lean into him. The DCI smirked inwardly—Troy had been made a detective young, and with good reason: a good detective played his cards close to his chest.

Again, his companion's voice shook him from his musings. "In the beginning, I was terrified you'd notice and chuck me out, but when you didn't… it's not that I wasn't unhappy sometimes, not to mention, um, frustrated, but… I always figured the right person would just… not make me forget about you, but simply… slot into place. It's not like I felt I had to be holding out for you, so I just tried to find someone who was worth it. And Laura was, she just… made her choice."

Barnaby felt flummoxed—Troy had settled into the same sort of stalemate of accepting his own feelings but not daring to cross the line as he had. If he'd known for certain how Troy felt, things would have changed dramatically. He chuckled drily.

"What?"

"Oh, it's just that we're quite a pair—settling for something we think is all we can get when there's much more just waiting." Barnaby stared at the opposite wall but he could feel Troy's eyes on him, searching for the meaning hidden behind those words. Then, he heard a sharp inhale, and he knew he'd been understood.

"Oh."

Tom turned to look Gavin in the eye, and tried to decipher what he saw there: surprise, certainly, but was that… hope?

"Well," Troy continued, looking at his hands now, which were fiddling with his shirtsleeve, "classic case of The More You Know, then, huh?"

Tom decided to go out on a limb here—for all he'd just told him, Troy had gotten over his crush on him, but he'd already proven he was a good secret-keeper, perhaps this was another one? He had to risk it. What if a part of Troy had never given up, just like Barnaby's own emotions couldn't seem to let go?

"Just answer me this: are you quite sure you're over me? Please be honest." Troy's eyes widened again, and Tom realized the impossible situation he'd just put him in, so he threw caution into the wind. "Because I'm not." At that, Troy stilled with a jolt, and stared at him. Barnaby went on with a soft smile, "But if you really are, then I'm the one who just single-handedly ruined everything. I just don't want to make the same mistake twice."

"I told you it was in the past. I should have known better."

"Better than what?"

"Than to make the same mistake twice." With that, Troy leaned over and kissed him. Barnaby found himself responding, and inwardly stilled. This was it. How far would he go? He loved his wife, and then here was this man who he wanted back in his life so desperately he didn't know whether to condemn or pity himself. In that moment, Troy nipped at his bottom lip gently, and for once in his life, Tom Barnaby decided he didn't care.

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Hello, dears! Yet another stint in crime-fighting, but with another pairing that I dearly love. I hope you enjoy it =)  
> Set after Troy's promotion, before Cully's wedding.
> 
> Repost from ff.net.


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